


Calon a Cartref

by therealdocmountfitchett



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Backstory, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealdocmountfitchett/pseuds/therealdocmountfitchett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into Delia Busby's past (my headcanon).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Being Young

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue why I wrote this or where it's going.

There was a big oak tree behind the cowshed, and the Busby kids used to like climbing it. Delia thought about that tree a lot, especially when she was elderly. 

There were five children living packed into Oxlands Farmhouse; Uncle Richards's two kids, small Mary and Alan, as well as Morgan, Ellen, and Delia. Delia was the youngest in the house. Mamgu was the oldest. Mam used to say that Mamgu was 'old as the hills', and little Deels was always the apple of her grandmother's eye. 

Old Mary Busby saw herself as a girl in her smallest grandchild; the dark locks, the blue eyes, the freckled nose. The high-pitched child's voice, still sweet with innocence, and wicked girlish giggle. The way that Delia always seemed determined to smile and regale you with a story about what the naughty boys from school did today, no matter how cold she was in the winter, or how hungry she was when times were difficult; Mary recognised it from her own childhood. Mamgu grew up in rural Wales of the late Victorian age- she knew what hardship was. Delia grew up in rural Wales at wartime. 

The whole livelihood of the Busby family depended on a herd of dairy cows, and the war only made matters worse. Oxlands Farmhouse had stood on its patch of land in Pembrokeshire since 1643; by the 1940s it was cracking apart. There never seemed to be enough money spare to properly fix the leaky roof or get rid of the damp, but they had fire, thick walls and each other. Most of the clothes the children wore were several years old, bought deliberately too big as so to last longer, and had to be patched up each time they were torn because clothing coupons didn't stretch very far. There wasn't ever quite enough food to give everyone a sizeable meal, either; most of it ended up on the children's plates, as well as surreptitious glasses of milk and rounds of cheese that had been taken out of the farm's produce. 

Yet, the Busbies were a hardy family. The war didn't touch Pembrokeshire the way it touched London. No bombs ever feel on their little village. There were several false air raids and emergency drills at school, which were always exciting, and the village's ranks were swollen by evacuees arriving from Swansea, Cardiff and London. Produce from local farms was commandeered by the government, and the farmer's market on a Thursday wasn't the same as it was. Many of the local men went off to war- Delia's dad and her Uncle Richard weren't among them. They were married farmers with children, so exempted from service. They joined the Home Guard instead, and Delia used to sneak down to the chapel hall with her brother Morgan to laugh at all the old men marching like penguins in uniform and pretending to shoot each other with broomsticks. That was about the extent of the Second World War to her.

You don't notice difficulty when you're a child. Not when you lived in a big, ancient farmhouse with an attic everybody insisted was haunted, and two acres of land to play on. Not when you had siblings like friends, cousins like siblings, and a home that was forever full of the buzz of people. Not when you had long summer days to play games out in the fields, and a tree behind the cowshed to climb. Delia remembered all of the little things after the passage of the years, like the smell of dry grass under the summer heat and the way it scratched her skin when she crawled through the undergrowth pretending to be a spy. She remembered how the oak tree used to bloom into fresh greenness, before the leaves turned yellow and red in the autumn and dropped. The smell of the cows, and how cows felt when you stroked their flanks and milked them. The fact it always seemed to be cold in the cowshed no matter what the season was. The old schoolhouse in the village, with all of its two rooms and miniature bell spire. The chapel. Sunday School with Miss Wilkins the preacher, and the hymns they used to sing. Mrs Bevans's sweet shop of delights. The mischief Delia used to cause around the village, and trying not to laugh whenever Mam gave her a row. The coming of winter; the mud in the yard would freeze over, and their breath would turn to smoke. Snow fell. Yellow lights would be glowing in the windows of Oxlands Farmhouse when she arrived home from school, catching the snowflakes in its beams. Mamgu would stir her grandchildren mugs of cocoa, and make them sit by the fire in the dim parlour. In the evenings, the oak tree would look strangley beautiful, its bare branches silhouetted against a red sunset. There was something magical about it.

That was Delia Busby's childhood. People grew, things changed. As she got bigger, the village got smaller. But, in the smallness was how it all began. She was simply a farmer's daughter from Wales who made London her home. Patsy liked listening to Delia talk about her childhood; the words painted such a vivid picture that Patsy could see it in her mind's eye. She could have reached out and touched it, and somehow, it made it better. It made her feel like Delia's childhood was her childhood too, a sort of replacement for all that she had missed out on. They came from different corners of the earth; a Welsh farming girl who started with nothing and found treasures, and a rich shipbroker's daughter from Singapore who started with the world at her feet and lost it all. But, they found each other. Somehow, their paths crossed, and Delia took up residence in Patsy's empty affections. Patience Mount had no need for money or respectability when she had constancy and love.  
Sometimes, when the lights were low late at night and they talked unguardedly, Patsy fancied that if she blinked, her grown-up nurse would disappear. And sitting in the warmth would be a little girl, with blue eyes and freckles and a wicked laugh.


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the close of one chapter, another's first sentence begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry for this, I haven't proofread properly so I don't know if this chapter works or not. Finding out is the point of sharing, I suppose :'D

1948

The war was three years over. 1948 was more than halfway passed. The month of September dawned; a chill wind blew away the blue skies and liberty of summer. She may not have been able to see it yet, but Delia Busby's girlhood was coming to a close.  
They never wore uniform to the village primary. That morning at the beginning of a fresh school year, she took off her nightdress and changed into the black and red colours of the county grammar school for the first time. The gymslip had been cousin Mary's when she was younger, and the tie and sash used to belong to Ellen. Mary was fifteen now. Ellen was thirteen. The three of them had shared a bedroom since as far back as any of their memories stretched; Delia was used to seeing the others put on their grammar school uniforms in the morning. It felt grown-up to join them.  
"Let's see, Deels" said Mary, grinning and rolling up her stockings. Delia turned around with a flourish, having dressed facing the wall to keep an air of mystery.  
"Ta da! What do you think?"  
Ellen clapped. She was uncharacteristically not-grumpy this morning. "Chip off the old block you are, aye. Wait till Mam and Dad see you!"  
Mary stepped forward towards her. With tender hands, she straightened Delia's askew tie and flattened down the collar. "There" she said softly. "Absolute stunner, isn't she Ell? We'll have to walk her around the school, or all the boys'll be after her".  
Delia giggled. There were four years between she and Mary, but it seemed like a lifetime. 

There was more fuss at breakfast. Dad, Uncle Richard and Morgan had already gone out to the fields to tend the cows. Mamgu was frying bacon, Mam and Auntie Mol talked while Mam made cups of tea, and cousin Alan, what with his slicked hair and glasses and nearly-manly face, sat in the chair by the stove reading the papers.  
Auntie Mol saw her first and cried out. "My lord, look at her, Gwen! Who's this young lady and what have you done with our baby Deels?"  
Mam turned. Her face crinkled into a gentle half-smile at the uniformed girl standing to attention at the kitchen table. She softened with pride; the grammar school meant opportunity. Proper facilities, good teachers, a real secondary education. The kids who went to the grammar school were the clever ones, who could really make something of themselves. Delia was one of the clever ones. But, in some small corner of her heart, Mrs Busby was torn; her smile was not a full one. Minutes went by, full of chat. Mamgu served up bacon sandwiches. All of them sat down for the usual chaotic breakfast, and as Delia talked animatedly, Gwen Busby watched her with a feeling almost as if sand were slipping through her fingers and back into the sea. 

The four school-bound Busbies were turned out of the door at eight o'clock sharp to catch the bus.  
"Don't scuff your shoes! And don't get any stains on your clothes! Oh, and don't loose your sash, Delia, or I'll have your head on a plate tonight. Good luck, fy nghariad!".  
Mamgu was shouting out of the upstairs window at them. Delia waved back. The skies were early morning grey-blue and dappled with cloud. They waited at the bus stop on Farm Lane. Evergreen hedges and cow parsley grew on either side of the track, blocking view of the fields behind. A chill breeze ruffled the hedges benevolently. The four were alone; Oxlands was outside the village, so they were the only ones who ever really used this stop. For a while, the deep, muted quietness was delicious. A bus rumbled up the country lane at ten past eight ('late, as usual", according to the testimonies of Alan, Mary and Ellen). It had come all the way from Porthgain, and wasn't even half full yet. Delia chose a seat beside the window. She always liked sitting by the window on buses; watching the scenery go by was the best part of any journey. 

They drove onwards to the village, taking one of the windy hill roads. By far the best angle to view it was from the hillside, and Delia gazed down fondly at the slate-topped cottages and buildings spread out on the valley floor from her vantage point. She could pick out the village school, and the shape of its bell tower. It was only a tiny school, consisting of three classrooms and about forty pupils. She had said goodbye to it for the final time at the beginning of the summer holidays. Delia never thought she would cry to leave the place she had such a mercurial relationship with, but she did. The realisation of how much she was going to miss its chalky smell, the big discoloured stain on the Junior classroom floor where she spilled paint three years ago, the headteacher's office that had been setting for so many 'talking-tos' she'd been given, the patch of missing plaster on girls' cloakroom ceiling that had happened because she accidentally swung her satchel too high, and Mr Price the headmaster himself, did not hit her until the prospect of leaving suddenly became a reality. Mr Price approached her on the last day of school and shook her hand.  
"Good luck, Miss Busby" he said, smiling gruffly. They had certainly seen some times together. "You're a clever girl. I know you are. Now go off to that grammar school and do me proud, girl". 

She had the sudden urge to hug him.

The final straw was when all the friends who didn't pass their Eleven-Plus exam, and wouldn't be going to the grammar school, began hugging her. Dinah Williams sobbed into Delia's shoulder, spluttering that they would still see each other all the time, and Delia couldn't hold back her tears any more because she knew that they wouldn't. There were just seventeen of them in the year group. They'd known each other since birth. Grown up in the same village. Gone to the same chapel on Sundays. The feeling of an era finishing pervaded in the air that day, because the old gang were fragmenting apart. Newness was fast approaching, and there was nothing anybody could do to halt it. 

There were so many stops on the way that she almost fell asleep again. Felicity Davies, one of Delia's oldest and closest friends, nudged her into awareness as they rattled into town.  
"There it is, Deels" she murmured, pointing at the vast redbrick secondary they could see over the fence. The grammar school was in the middle of town; already, Heol Ysgol was overrun with pupils. Some of them looked like grown men and women, much too old to be in uniform. One group of boys, who must have been around sixteen, stood around outside the baccy shop opposite, smoking and ribbing the new first formers as they walked past. Delia stepped off the bus and into the fast-moving throngs. There were so many people, and they all seemed so much bigger. Sophisticated, even, just like cousin Alan. She didn't feel as grown-up any more. She felt more like the smaller-than-average eleven year old girl she was, suddenly wishing she had worn some stockings to cover the farmyard bruises on her skinny legs. 

But, Delia Busby was never one to be ashamed. She wasn't a girl to be frightened by big crowds. There was a new adventure waiting behind the grammar school gates. A new chapter was ready to be opened, and Delia Busby was ready to open it. Getting into the grammar school had been a dream since she was aware of what the grammar school was. She looked up at the high roof arches and sash windows, ready to finally see what this place she so often thought about was really like. This was the beginning of her future. 

There were other first formers in the crowd. They were immediately recognisable from their small size, unnaturally neat clothes and awed faces. She gazed all around her, taking in all the people who were going to be her classmates. Strangers now, but friends later. Meeting new people was one of the things she was looking forward to most. A particularly pretty girl with dark hair tied up in a ribbon and green eyes caught her look, and smiled at her. Delia grinned back. Green-eyed girl was magnetic. They must get to know one another soon. 

The new school year commenced with the ringing of a bell. Somewhere near Manchester, a third form girl was trudging through the corridors of Our Lady Mary and All Angels Boarding School, deeply dreading the prospect another term under Mother Gertrude's thumb. 

In Pembrokeshire, Delia exhaled deeply, pushed her hair out of her face and walked towards the great hall for registration with a fresh spring in her step.


	3. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia was never exactly sure of what she wanted to do, until the perfect ambition presented itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, this is much too long and kind of boring. (Also, I watched a nine minute video of a cow giving birth for this chapter).

When she was very young, Delia wanted to be a star.   
She must only have been two, if Mrs Busby's memory served correctly. They went to see the primary school Nativity play in the chapel. Delia and Ellen were too little to take part, but the other family children were all in it. Mary was a star, Morgan was one of the Three Wise Men, and Alan was the angel Gabriel. Delia sat on her mother's lap, being held in by two arms around her waist to stop her wandering around the chapel during the performance. She wasn't able to follow any of what was going on, but the one thing that was absolutely transfixing was cousin Mary. Mary was at the back of the scene, standing on a cider crate to be visible. She was dressed in a star costume that had been handmade by Auntie Mol and Mam, fashioned entirely out of tin foil, cardboard and papier mâché. The candlelight glinted off the silvery tinfoil like little sparks whenever Mary moved. Delia thought it was the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. When the play ended and they were back outside in the cold, clear night, she pointed up at the sky and declared proudly that when she grew up, she wanted to be star. There was nothing she could see in her way.

After that, it was a pirate. Then, it was a detective. Then, a farmer, just like Dad. The nursing phase came after farming, at the age of seven. It was one she never grew out of. 

Delia had always liked helping with the cows, especially when she was very young. Dad used to let her tag along to tend to them. She wanted to stroke them and talk to them while they were being milked, and let them know everything was alright. She'd hang about the cowshed and try to help out if one of the herd was injured or seemed ill. If she was told to go back to the house, that usually meant the shotgun was being loaded to put some poor beast out of its misery. Those were the worst sort of days. The shotgun volley would echo back to the farmhouse, where Delia could hear it and it could hurt her too.

The only time she was ever allowed to properly help as a small child was during calving, when Dad and Uncle Richard needed all the help they could get. The first births she ever saw were bovine ones; Dad would let her watch (and later on, give assistance) while they delivered calves. The childlike joy of seeing a new calf come into the world, slick with water from the womb and trying to stand up on its spindly legs, was a delight Delia never hardened against, even when she was a fully grown adult. Caring for the season's calves and watching them grow up was an integral part of the year. Dad chided her because the cows were "just livestock, Deels. Dumb beasts, not pets. You mustn't get attached to them". But she couldn't help herself. How could you not get attached when you saw the cows grow up, from weak and tiny newborns to the fully grown animals who grazed in the fields? Perhaps part of the reason her ambition to be a farmer fizzled out was because she cared too much. 

The first death she ever saw was also a bovine one. A Friesian heifer called Lotus went into labour one evening in June when Delia when six, going on seven. She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, eating leftovers and completing sums for school whilst Mam bustled around her. It was an early summer evening, with a scarlet sunset and peacefully warm breeze. Morgan came sprinting through the farmyard and burst in through the door, shattering the momentary quiet and causing Mam to spill her tea.   
"Oh, sugar. Be careful you fool, you'll cause the death of someone now!" Mrs Busby cried shrilly.   
Morgan was panting and had a smile plastered across his face. "Sorry Mam. Deels, Dad told me to come and get you and the others. He thinks Lotus is going to calf tonight if you want to come and see".   
They fetched Mary and Ellen from upstairs and Delia raced out into the fields, leaving her unfinished homework and Mam's protests behind her. Dusk was drawing in quickly now that the sun had disappeared behind the fields, and Lotus was lying in the lamplit cowshed when they found her.   
"Is it happening?" chirped Delia, climbing up on the pen fence. Dad turned to her; a great grizzly farmer, with bearish eyebrows and a kind smile.   
"Not yet, cariad. I'm glad you lot are here- you can put down some fresh straw for when the time comes".   
Despite collective groans from all of them, she took to the task with enthusiasm. It wasn't long before her tights were laddered and there was straw weaved into her hair. Mam wouldn't be pleased, but that didn't bother Delia. Not on a night like this. Mrs Busby usually brightened up at a new birth, no matter how much of a mood she was in with her children. 

The anticipation; it seemed to draw out forever. They waited in excited hush, as the evening grew dimmer and the lamp grew brighter, for the birth to progress. The process was slow, but it was happening. Delia secretly hoped it would be a heifer, whispering with Ellen about what they should call it. They usually kept the heifers, and she got to look after them. Bull calves would be taken off to the farmer's market in Prydie on a Thursday to be sold. She hated seeing them go. 

As it turned out, the calf was a bull after all. Two hooves appeared first. After it came a head and narrow, bony shoulders.   
"Well done, old girl" muttered Uncle Richard, holding the half-born calf with his hands. In the final few seconds, they all knew what was going to happen before it did. Delia smiled with eagerness, peering over Dad's shoulder to watch. Lotus gave one final groan, and in a rush of fluid, blood and placental tissue, a calf slid out onto the straw. His coat was soaked, and his eyes were closed.   
"It's a bull" Dad announced, glancing back at the children happily. 

The local air raid warden, Mr Rees, would've had a fit if he could see them in the open cowshed with an uncovered light. "It might seem picky, but you won't be so quick to break the rules when the Luftwaffe drop a bomb on you", he would have said. But Mr Rees didn't see them, and in the flicker and sway of the yellowy gas light, six pairs of eyes rested on the calf lying on the straw. The tiny bull moved feebly at first. After that, there was nothing. Mr Busby and Uncle Richard knew something was wrong, and Delia could sense the sudden change in the atmosphere.   
"What's wrong?" asked Mary, a trembling note in her voice. No one answered. Both men were crouched over the calf; rubbing his chest, clearing his nose to get him to breathe, murmuring wasted words of encouragement.   
"Do you want me to run to the village and get the vet?" Delia said soberly. For a moment, she sounded older than her six years. The calf still wasn't moving. 

It was no use. After five minutes, Uncle Richard leaned back at last.   
"Little thing's gone".   
He shed his jacket and began wrapping up the body. Dad stood, as if to shield the scene from view of the children gathered outside the pen. They had been watching the resuscitation attempts in stunned silence.   
"Why don't you go back to the house?" he said. His tone was gentle. They nodded with no words. Delia was strangely numb inside as she walked through the night. It didn't register what had happened until they got back to the blacked-out farmhouse and she saw the expectant faces waiting in the kitchen.   
"Well?" said Mamgu, rising from her chair.   
A sudden lump rose in her throat. She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to say. The tears welled up with no chance of blinking them back. Delia managed to croak out two words.   
"It died".   
Mamgu's face fell. She watched her granddaughter closely, who had a lone tear running down her cheek. "Oh, fy nghariad".   
She lunged forward and placed her arms tightly around Delia. The latter wept onto her grandmother's bosom with abandon. She wept for the calf who breathed for only a few seconds and died before he even had the chance to open his eyes; she wept for the ruthlessness of nature, mocking her innocence; she wept with guilt, for there must have been something she could have done that she didn't. Mamgu sat on the rocking chair in front of the fire with Delia in her lap. Morgan called her a baby for crying, but his own veneer was threatening to split. She cried until there were no tears left to cry. Then, she fell asleep with a headache on Mamgu's chest. 

Children are resilient. Delia overcame the grief of that night quickly. But, she never forgot the calf's closed eyelids, and she couldn't ever shake the uneasy, creeping feeling of guilt that there was something she didn't do. Not even years later, when time and fate had distorted the memories further still. 

The summer improved vastly. School broke up for the holidays, and there was a village full of evacuees to play with. Delia had her seventh birthday in August; they held a party in the farmhouse, with a chocolate 'ration cake' and gifts and balloons. Her friends came over and made a mess (much to Mam's chagrin). In spite of the ongoing war and the Busbies' blatant lack of funds, it was still a bountiful birthday. Delia was especially, tenderly grateful for it when she grew up and looked back. 

Miss Wilkins from Sunday School organised a charity dance in the village hall a for few days after her birthday. The whole area turned out, including soldiers from the nearby barracks, airmen, local land girls, and a group of nurses stationed in Pembroke who were looking for a good shindig. One good thing that came out of the war was Delia's revelation that grown-up ladies could be more than men's wives. Just like she had been enthralled by Mary's star costume, she was enthralled with the group of nurses. They seemed to sweep around the dance floor, so glamorous in their white uniforms and red lipstick. Almost ethereally so. One of them, a jiving brunette who said her name was Susan, caught Delia's eye watching them and saw her sitting at the side. Susan smiled kindly, and came over to sit down too.   
"Hello, old thing. Are you having a good night?"   
Delia giggled. Susan had a funny accent, like one of the people on the radio. "Yes, thank you".   
They began talking about nursing. Delia wanted to know exactly what nurses did, and what it was like.   
"It's... it's good, I suppose. You have to be a certain type of person to be a nurse though, I think. You mostly just take care of people who are ill, or have injures" said Susan. From her description, it seemed as if the whole job consisted of looking after patients and having exciting, heroic things happen to you. 

That was the night the seeds were sown for the very first time. It was a group of admirably glamorous nurses at a village hall dance during the Second World War who put the thought of nursing in Delia Busby's head. She turned it over in her mind, and turned it over some more. She read about what it meant to be a nurse in books. She kept magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, to trawl through them for research. She would run down to Doctor Rogers in the village and help out in the surgery reception on a Saturday. Mrs Rogers, the doctor's wife, thought she was ever so precious.   
"If young Miss Busby is going to be a nurse when she grows up, we must give her practice" she smiled, bestowing an ecstatic Delia with a spare Red Cross armband to wear. 

Some wise part of her was expecting the infatuation to pass, but it didn't. In fact, the more she knew about it, the more her ambition grew. It was as if the perfect profession had been sitting under nose the whole time, and had decided to present itself to her. Getting to wear a smart uniform and making ill people better all day seemed too good to be true.

"Deels is having another one of her phases" sighed Mam to Dad, watching as her daughter chatted to Auntie Mol about how she had decided what she wanted to do when she grew up. All of them expected her to move on eventually to something else soon. Mam didn't mind her having ambitions; she was only a little girl, and for now she was allowed to dream. 

As predicted, the initial infatuation passed. But, as she matured from a giddy seven year old, the infatuation gave way to a deeper sort of ambition that anchored itself inside. She felt as if she had discovered what she really wanted to do in life, and she was not going to give up on it. 

There was discussion of the future at the breakfast table on a drizzly morning in 1952. Delia was sixteen. A woman.   
"-think I'll probably stay on to do my Advanced Levels, because I want good grades if I'm going to go to nursing school when I leave-" 

Mrs Busby could make out snippets of the conversation from the next room. Her worry was increasing. Delia had made it to sixteen, and still had not twigged that nursing wouldn't happen. A low voice in Mrs Busby's ear hissed "what if it does? She's capable", but she brushed it off like a particularly irritating fly. 

Gwen wanted to sit her daughter down and tell her, you are a farm girl from Wales. This is where you belong. You aren't ever going to become a nurse. Your calling is to be a wife and a mother, the two noblest professions you could think of. You're flying too high for yourself, and I want you to come down because I love you. 

Then she saw Delia, talking away competently about the medical profession, teeth gritted with determination to succeed. And suddenly, Gwen wouldn't have the heart to say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, if you read to the end without giving up, you are a hero.


	4. Certainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As I recall, it ended much too soon".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Biscay/Hotwaterandtowels for critiquing this for me :)

They were alone now.  
"Come and sit, it's nice and cool here" said Margo, grinning so that her glasses twitched ever so slightly. Her grin always made Delia feel warm inside, and she smiled too. 

Felicity had sneaked off somewhere with Nick, and Jim was sleeping on the sand out of view. It was only the pair of them left out of the five of them who had walked to the beach that glorious day in August. "We're like Famous Five, aren't we lads?" Margo had remarked earlier as they walked through the sand dunes. "All we need is a bottle of ginger beer and a dog named Timmy".  
Delia laughed. "If we're the Famous Five, bags I'm George".  
After eating a picnic of leftovers out on the main stretch of bay (surrounded by dogs, noisy children and rogue sand), they had decided to kick off their plimsolls and go exploring. Delia and Margo headed the expedition, clambering over rocks ahead of the others and accidentally losing Nick and Felicity along the way. It must have been a mile in total that they walked along the coastline; eventually, Jim told them he needed to stop. 

They left him sunbathing amongst the long grass on the dunes. There was a cove below, that was only accessible on foot. It had rugged cliff walls on three sides, and a shallow cave receding into the back. The cove was much shadier than open land; Pembrokeshire was being scorched by a blazing sun. Delia's feet were wet, and caked in sand and scratches. She held her shoes in her hand. Margo had sat down on the darkened cove sediment, just inside the mouth of the cave. Some part of Delia was eternally glad that they were alone. 

She didn't mean to sit so close. It happened unintentionally, as she dropped down with exhaustion. Instead of sitting beside Margo, they sat touching. Delia blushed and almost made a motion to move out of politeness. She hesitated. If Margo minded, she didn't say anything. In fact, her body relaxed, and Delia felt her friend resting her weight against her. 

Delia and Margo met each other in the first week of secondary school. Their relationship began a tentative acquaintance, but grew exponentially over the course of time. If Felicity was Delia's oldest friend, Margo was her closest. She was taller than Delia, but only by a little. Bespectacled, auburn-haired, chronically witty. Under the sarcastic exterior, sweet as anything too. The sort of person Delia couldn't help but like immensely. They spent a lot of time together, mostly laughing. Their tastes were similar; Margo also held a deep appreciation of Lauren Bacall and Marlene Dietrich, Deels's two favourite film stars. Over the past year, she had come to consider Margo her best friend. Their way was to treat one another with over-the-top affection; mooning around like lovers had begun as a joke to make fun of Nick and Felicity, but they soon became accustomed to it. Delia knew it was 'only a laugh', the way they acted. But, some part of her liked it. Some part of her, even perhaps all of her, enjoyed the way Margo held her hand, kissed her cheek when they greeted, called her 'love' and 'sweetheart'. Some part of her knew it wasn't only a laugh, because when she hugged Margo back, she meant it.

The thought had been at the back of her head for two or so years now, that she might be 'the other way inclined', as Mam euphemistically put it. Delia had always been fascinated with girls in a sense she couldn't quite articulate. Even from childhood, the beautiful leading ladies had forever been the most magnetic people on the silver screen. She found a strange pleasure from admiring women, that simply wasn't possible to put into exact words. Boys were nice, and she could appreciate a handsome man, but they didn't excite in the same way. It was odd. She had never had the desire to kiss a boy, or daydreamed about getting married to one. The only powerful attractions she ever felt had been towards girls. Delia was not stupid, nor was she sheltered. Her village may have been small, but there were whispers, rumours and scandalous gossip from people she knew to hint at the ways of the outside world, and plentiful books to make the patchy information clearer. Books and titbits that Mary and Ellen told her when they were in their bedroom at night were her main sources of knowledge. She knew what a homosexual was, and she knew what the word lesbian meant. She was aware that some people really were 'the other way inclined', even if at first she had not expected it to be herself. 

It puzzled Delia at first; growing up and realising that she simply couldn't bring herself to like boys in the same sense all her friends seemed to, no matter how hard she tried. Not that she cared particularly. The thought planted itself in her mind at around ten or eleven, when the cinematic sex appeal of the brooding actresses she so loved began to stir at her heart. It consolidated itself when Delia became infatuated with her first real-life crush; Lily Jenkins, the pretty green-eyed girl whom she spotted on the first day of grammar school. Delia was pulled to her inexplicably. They hit it off, because Lily was nice. Friendly, interesting, an alto in the school choir. She looked at people's faces when she talked to them, and Delia liked that. She began invading the latter's thoughts when she wasn't expecting it; a funny, beautiful acquaintance made into something else by the projection the latter's imagination. Delia's curiosity grew. At times, random questions such as, "I wonder what it would be like to kiss Lily?" would appear. Her affection for Lily grew into a real 'crush', like the sort Felicity had on Nick Francis. 

Again, Delia was not stupid. She worked out what her feelings were, after a little confusion. She knew what it meant that Lily made her heart skip a beat, invaded her daydreams, brought a flustered smile to her face. She tried telling herself it wasn't a crush at the start, in a rather feeble attempt at resisting. Yet, the abject fear of realisation didn't last long; a few months at best. A few months in which it was beginning to dawn on her what she was, and she was frightened of it. 

But Delia Busby was never one to care, truly in the depth of her personality, of what other people thought. Not one to hide herself well, to control her emotions. She was never one to be swayed easily; sin was subjective, she had decided a long time ago. As a grown woman, she thought (with a touch of irony), that it was the chapel's attempts to steer her away from evil that resulted in her turning to it. Miss Wilkins, the kindly preacher, only taught the younger kids at Sunday School. Mr Paulson the minister took all those over the age of six. He was an austere man, harsh and cruel as they came. The sort of anomaly who made you wonder why on earth he ever agreed to work with children. Mr Paulson shouted at them until his face turned red when he was angry. He belittled, smacked, used the cane on pupils who couldn't recite Bible passages if he was in a bad mood. He terrified Delia when she was very little, but as she got older and bigger, he simply became an annoyance; a challenger. It dawned on her that the worst he could do was send her home with a fresh battle scar, new resentment, a note telling her parents she behaved badly. Mam and Dad didn't like him either, and Dad surreptitiously encouraged her to fight back if he 'gave her cheek'. So she did. She used to stand up to him with relish, and take whatever punishment he gave afterwards. They butted heads; the loathing was mutual. Delia thought Mr Paulson was a sadistic, shrivelled-up old bastard, and Mr Paulson thought Delia Busby was an arrogant and pointless waste of space who would amount to nothing. He pretended not to be unnerved by the unfaltering resistance she showed him. 

Mr Paulson said that drinking was evil, so she always made sure to give him a silent toast with each glass of alcohol she drank, even long after she left the village. Mr Paulson said that girls couldn't play football and boys couldn't play 'girly games', so the village kids used to deliberately do the opposite whenever he was in the vicinity. Mr Paulson said when he preached in chapel that homosexuals, prostitutes and pacifists were ungodly and sinful, so young Delia concluded that they mustn't be that bad. 

In an odd way, she supposed, she owed Mr Paulson. It was thanks to him she did not fall into the trap of blind following and devotion that she could have. He hardened her and balanced her; drove her away towards a new liberalism. It was partly (though not entirely) because of David Paulson that Delia's fear of her sexuality did not last long. It was the shock, maybe, or the puzzlement, that frightened her. Gradually, the fear began to soften. She was scared more of the fact that she wasn't scared than of the fact she could be a queer. Delia wanted to be scared; she wanted to be horrified at herself. But, she found that the more she thought about it, and the longer it preyed on her mind and bothered her at night, the less of a burden it became. Attention and logical thought seemed to diminish its power. And slowly, in spite of her half-hearted stabs at repression, a breakthrough question pushed itself into her train of thought quite unexpectedly while she brushed her teeth one evening: what's so bad if I am a queer? 

If Lily Jenkins laid the foundations, it was Margo Sampson who consolidated it. Delia never intended to fall in love with her best friend. In fact, she didn't want to at all. It happened anyway. Now they were sitting alone together in the mouth of a sea cave two weeks before her thirteenth birthday, listening to the gulls and the crashing ocean. It smelled of dank seaweed, salt and Margo's perfume. Delia could have breathed in her scent forever. They fell into a comfortable silence; Margo rested her head on Delia's shoulder. The latter closed her eyes and began dreaming of the future, and of her friend. She felt her friend's soft strands of long hair tickling her neck; irresistibly, she could not help but wonder. 

It was Margo who broke the silence, after a long time. They must have sat there for half an hour at least, only chatting sporadically. The sun had moved around the edge of the cliff, so its afternoon rays glittered on the waves. A few hours and it would be setting.  
"We should go soon" she said. Her voice was heavy. "The tide will be coming in, and we might drown".  
Delia chuckled. "God, you're cheerful, aren't you?"  
"Just saying" came the cheeky reply from the region of her collarbone. Margo raised her head, and Delia's neck suddenly felt bare. The former turned to her, and their faces were so close that Delia could pick out each individual eyelash on her friend's eyelids. She looked into Margo's eyes behind the lenses of her glasses; two brown irises, with a deep black pupil in the centre of each. Her friend's gaze burned, and although Delia wanted to look away, she wanted to stay forever. She could see that Margo was staring back into her own eyes. The air seemed to change around the two teenage girls sitting in the sea cave. Delia could feel it; how tantalisingly alone they were. Margo's expression was changing. A strange, heat-of-the-moment curiosity was visible, spreading across her face. Delia's cheeks flushed hot, and she was breathless. They should stop now, but she didn't want it to. The moment drew out a few seconds longer, with Margo glancing searchingly at the other's lips. Both knew what was going to happen before it did. 

It was only a brief kiss. A sweet, inquisitive one that bordered on chaste, placed by Margo on Delia's mouth. But, it was enough. They pulled away gently. Delia raised tentative fingers to her lips where she had been kissed, breathing in sharply. Her limbs, her veins, her entire body, were flooded with electrical charges of adrenaline. She wanted Margo to do it again. 

They were disturbed by Jim. He peered over the cliff top, and called down to them.  
"There you are! Bloody hell, I've been scouring the countryside looking for you two. Nick and Flick said to get a move on, or we'll miss the bus".  
Margo stood up, and the moment was over. They reunited with the rest of their party, and trekked back across the coastline, kept apart by the group conversation. They bussed home; Delia got off a stop before everyone else, at the familiar bus stop on Beach Lane. Her head was spinning. Mamgu asked her why she was grinning like an ape when she got home, and Delia replied spiritedly that it wasn't a crime to be happy. 

Margo never talked about the kiss again. It had been a short, wonderful second, but one that wasn't repeated. A one-off. Delia half-expected (or rather, wanted) them to discuss it. She waited for it to be brought up. It never was. There wasn't any awkwardness between them; their friendship carried on uninterrupted. Margo just didn't mention what happened at the cove. It hurt, for a little bit. Waiting painfully for something that never happened. Delia's first kiss was also her first taste of heartbreak. 

But, life moved on, and so did she. Margo was one of the first she ever loved, and definitely not the last. Their kiss was one of the scenes that stayed stuck in her memory immovably; a treasured, tender recollection. It wasn't the exchange that Delia remained enamoured with, so much as the implications of it. That day was the day she somehow became certain. Something unnameable, unaddressable, so subtle that she didn't even notice right away, was awoken. 

She was not an idiot. She knew she couldn't tell anyone what happened, or what she knew she was. Yet, it didn't matter. It wasn't a burden at all. It was a secret; a secret that actually, she was beginning to almost like. Delia Busby was a sinner, and she didn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is a lyric from a Frankie Valli song I used for the description...


	5. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> London is on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably reads rushed, because I wrote it all essentially in one go, and like always, I have absolutely no clue if it makes any sense. This is the last chapter; I thought it was time to bring this story to a close :) a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read this and supported it, you really don't know how much it means. Again, thank you!!

It was strange; walking through the village you grew up in towards the train station, carrying two suitcases full of clothes and change to pay for a ticket, knowing that the next train to London was taking you away and you weren't going to come back. Well, permanently, anyway. 

A tad hungover isn't the best way to begin a new adventure in life, but Delia didn't mind too much. Her last party as a local girl had left its stamp on her, like a backwards (but still appreciated) parting gift from an old friend. It was Monday now, and the headache had almost worn off. As was customary in an austere village that centred around the pub as its main source of escapism, when something noteworthy happened, a party was thrown. Delia Busby running off to London to become a nurse was something noteworthy, and Morgan took her down to The Dragon and Lion to celebrate with drinks and pals. 

Mam hadn't wanted to come. Her and Delia fought a lot more the past year or so. The had begun clashing over little things, and the little things became bigger things. It seemed as if she couldn't move without her mother snapping or berating her for "doing it wrong". Delia was able to take a hint. She knew that Mrs Busby did not approve of her doing Advanced Levels and flying the nest beyond the circumference of Pembrokeshire. The world beyond was unknown, full of hardship. You either learned to swim, or drowned; images of her daughter becoming one of the drowned kept Gwen awake at night.

Delia received a letter one morning, informing her she had passed her entrance exams and that there was a place as a trainee for her at the London Hospital. She read it in private, away from the boring gazes at the breakfast table, because she didn't know how she would face people if it was bad news. Everybody in the village knew about her 'grand plans', even though they weren't that grand. All the dreams she had were invested in nursing. After her entrance exams, she had realised with the sense of having a carpet pulled from beneath her that if she were to fail, there were no other options she had even considered. Delia preferred not to think about having to tell everyone she knew that after all that had happened, she fell at the final hurdle, and nursing wasn't going to happen. She didn't know what would come next if things did go wrong; staying at home on the farmstead and dodging marriage for as long as possible, probably. The village was nice enough. But it wasn't a place for a (freshly) eighteen year old girl with a distinction in A Level Biology, restless nature, and longing to find somewhere she could be herself. 

As it turned out, the letter contained good news. Delia nearly shed tears of happiness as she read it, proceeding to jump up with feather-light limbs and run into the kitchen. For a brief second, she expected everyone to be there; she had quite forgotten how empty the house was nowadays. Alan was living in Cardiff, a newly qualified teacher. Ellen, the sensible, clever one, had a house near the High Street with her little boy and husband. Neither the child or the marriage was been planned, and the ceremony had been a small one in the chapel, arranged before anyone outside the family began to suspect. Younger Mary had married to her sweetheart, Colin, a few months ago. Their wedding was a much grander affair, and Delia was a bridesmaid. Mary and Colin were carving out a married life for themselves in the Rhondda. 

Only Morgan was left. For the first time in her life, Delia had a bedroom all to herself. And she didn't like it. It was lonely and empty without Mary's snores, Ellen's tossing and turning, other people's possessions scattered all over the place, roommates to whisper with over candlelight. She forgot they weren't there sometimes, like the day she got the letter. She skidded into the kitchen, and only remembered when she saw the empty spaces at the table. Mam might as well have been an empty space; their relationship, or rather lack of, had soured. Delia couldn't remember her mother saying a civil word to her in months. 

There were congratulations aplenty. Dad, Mamgu and her aunt and uncle hadn't been particularly approving of her either, but they could find it in themselves to be pleased. Auntie Mol grabbed her in a loving bear hug; Delia squeezed her tall aunt back, glancing over Mol's shoulder to where Mam was still sitting at the table. Unconsciously, everyone in the room was waiting for the terse barb that didn't come. Reprimands were waiting on Dad's tongue in anticipation. Gwen Busby didn't speak, and her silence was bizarrely disarming. Delia had grown used to defending herself, and to resenting her mother's very presence. But the expression of sorrow on Mrs Busby's face took her by surprise; it unnerved her. 

Nevertheless, Mam did little to tinge the delirious happiness of the coming days. The first person Delia told was Mary, who she telephoned from the phone box outside the postoffice. Mary near-deafened her with cries of delight from the other end of the line, and insisted on coming up on the bus to well-wish before the day of departure arrived. It was more difficult telling Ellen; her older sister was fresh-faced and twenty, and answered the door holding little David in her arms. Ellen, quiet, clever, promising, much mellowed, smiled graciously and pretended not to notice Delia's guilty tone. News spread around, and soon people she met on the street or in the shop were shaking her hand and congratulating her. She knew what life was like here, and she knew that when the villagers were at home tonight with their curtains drawn, they would likely start gossiping about that Busby girl getting too big for her boots and running off to London. But, Delia hadn't cared what 'they' thought for quite a few years now. 

Of course, it was Morgan's idea to go to the pub and celebrate. Mam and Dad usually didn't like her too close to The Dragon and Lion on weekends; unmarried young girls most certainly didn't go drinking with the men (and women). Dad made an allowance "just this once". They waited for her last Friday in Wales, and the family (Dad, Auntie Mol, Uncle Richard, Mary, Ellen, Morgan, and Mamgu. Alan was absent, but sent a kind note) lounged in the bar for congratulatory/goodbye pints. Mam had sat in an armchair with her back to them as they prepared earlier on, declining offers to join the group. She was darning a pair of Delia's stockings; shielding the nylons as so not to give her daughter the satisfaction, and concentrating hard to stop herself crying. Mrs Busby did not allow any tears to fall until they were all gone. 

The pub was busy on Friday night, as per usual. Friends and acquaintances of older times gathered around, and things escalated. Delia found herself sitting around tables and reminiscing tenderly with people she hadn't spoken to in years. Casual Friday drinks at the Drag and Lion somehow became an impromptu party in Delia's honour. Morgan 'unofficially officiated' things, and seemed to be doing a lot of drink-buying for his sister. She got more drunk on the atmosphere than on the cider; surrounded by people who loved her, inside the hot and sweetly unsophisticated alehouse that was so familiar, filled to the rafters with laughter and singing, and a little intoxicated, she recalled what had once charmed her so about her home village. Hymns and popular songs were belted out, and drunken dancing was had between the tables. Paulette the landlady chucked everyone out at midnight, by which time Delia was leaning on Mary for support. Ellen slipped off to her own home, unnoticed. The others staggered through the darkened lanes back to the farm, the path illuminated by Uncle Richard's lighter. It was a beautiful night, but no one noticed above another gusty chorus of Sosban Fach. 

Delia and Mary shared a room together for the last time that night. They cried into each other's hair because it was "the end of an era, Deels", they cried because Ellen had disappeared, and they cried because they were tipsy. After emotionally ranting herself dry, Delia fell asleep on the floor where it was cool, and didn't stir again until lunchtime the following day. She awoke with a splitting headache, and the insatiable urge to seek out Morgan and wring his neck. 

Mam didn't talk to anyone much in the final few days. It was almost as if the spirit had left her. She whisked around, solitary; the silence made a change from fighting, but strangely, Delia preferred the second option. She had spent months wishing Mam wouldn't talk to her; the sudden change made her want the squabbling back. The fear that she was going to depart Wales without making peace began to grow. 

It was on the platform the Monday of her departure when they mended things. Everyone else had said their goodbyes previously; Mam and Dad were the only ones who accompanied her to the train station. Delia was nearly surprised to see Mam putting her coat on at the door; nearly. Not quite. 

She bought a one-way ticket to Paddington Station at the booth. The Monday morning was tranquil; no one was about except the Busbies and the station master. There were birds singing in the trees opposite the railway line. Delia handed over her change, and tucked the resultant ticket into her pocket for safe keeping. Turning around, she saw that Dad had his arm around Mam, and her eyes were full of tears.   
"Take care will you now, cariad" Mrs Busby croaked. Delia rushed forward and wrapped her arms around her mother. In a short moment, the resentment seemed to melt away, easy as trickling water.   
"I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry. I've been beastly to you, and I shouldn't have" Mam was muttering.   
"Hush, now. I've been beastly too, and I'm sorry as well".   
They embraced for a long while. Delia had forgotten how nice it was to hug her own Mam, inhaling the well-known scent of perfume and powder, almost a child again. In Mrs Busby's mind, her daughter was a child. It still shocked her sometimes when she looked up to see not a little girl, but a grown woman. Her Deels. Her baby. A baby who had always brushed off protection with contempt, preferring to run free and come home covered in bruises.   
"You don't have to go, you know" she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "There's always a place for you at home. You don't have to leave if you don't want to".   
Delia pulled a patterned handkerchief out of her pocket, and wiped a lone tear from Mam's face. "But I do want to go" she replied softly. "I need to".   
"I know". Mrs Busby nodded, managing a weepy smile and gulping. The train was approaching in the near distance; their seconds were numbered. 

Delia placed a final kiss on each of her parent's cheeks as the train drew up to the platform. They were all engulfed in smoke.   
"Thank you. I mean it, thank you. For everything. I hope you know that I think you're the best parents in the world, and I love you".   
Now, Delia was trying not to cry too. She almost never cried; Friday night hadn't been one of those occasions, and this was not one of those occasions. Mam opened her mouth to talk, and sobbed instead.   
"You be careful, love" Dad said. She could have sworn there was a tremble in his words. He looked away. "Now get on your train, or you'll miss it!" 

She settled in an empty carriage, in a seat by the window, and waved and waved until the station was a speck on the horizon. Leaving hadn't felt real before today. It was only here, in the carriage, that the magnitude of what she had done really became clear. Delia was leaving Wales. She wasn't going to the grammar school, or Haverfordwest for shopping. She was going to London. 

She savoured the view of the village below for one last time as the train thundered across the mountainside. One last time, she drank it all in, picking out each individual building as she always did. A lump rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes, preserving the image in memory. But, she did not allow herself to be sad for long. As soon as the train rounded the bend and the village was out of sight, Delia sighed, sniffing and palming away the last traces of tears. She smiled brightly at no one. 

The village was small and simple, to the point of narrowness. She had outgrown it, in a sense. The thought of staying made her skin crawl with panic; claustrophobia, even. London was big and complicated. Delia Busby did not want a simple life. She wanted to nurse, she wanted to dance, she wanted to live in the heart of everything, in a place where she could find people like her and be utterly herself, without fear. That could be found in London, she was sure of it. 

The train rolled on across the countryside. Wales was left behind. The promise of a new chapter was up ahead, and early morning sunlight streamed in through the windows. Delia had been ready all her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I also went on a random Shakira bender in the middle of writing this, so whether that's made the quality better or worse, I have no idea)

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thank you!


End file.
